The Checklist

by Addie Woolridge

  “We’ve gotten used to it. Do you want to come in?” He stopped leaning on the frame and took a step back to let her in.

  “Thank you. I . . .” Dylan nodded, then paused as her shoe squelched. Panic left the little corner of her brain and seeped all the way to its outer edges as she tried to find a graceful retreat. If she walked in, she would track muddy water into the Robinsons’ otherwise spotless home, further cementing her place in the Worst Neighbor Hall of Fame. “Actually, I really shouldn’t.”

  Mike must have sensed her guilt, because his face relaxed into an easy smile. “No worries; I wouldn’t want to be seen entering the home of the enemy either.”

  “Oh no. It’s not that.” Dylan rushed to explain herself before she was firmly entrenched in Camp Dreadful Delacroix. “It’s just, my shoe is full of storm drain water, and your house is always spotless, and I don’t want to track it in.” She pointed erratically at her heel, which seemed more absurd now that she was drawing attention to it. What kind of Seattleite wore expensive shoes in this weather? “I promise I’m still significantly less strange than the rest of my family. Shoe thing aside.” She let her hands drop helplessly to her thighs.

  To her horror, Mike started laughing, his face cracking into a lopsided grin. “Why don’t you dump your shoe out and come in? My parents are picking up dinner, so we don’t have to tell them about the averted carpet disaster.”

  “That is probably the most reasonable option,” she admitted, adopting a woman-as-flamingo pose as she tried to take off one heel while still wearing the other.

  Wobbling precariously close to a fall, Dylan threw her hand out to catch the front of the house, but instead she caught the lean muscle of Mike’s bicep as he grabbed her forearm to keep her from toppling over. Appreciating the feel of muscle under the cotton dress shirt he wore, Dylan grabbed her heel and pulled. He likes the gym, she thought, smiling. Those don’t just happen overnight; it took Nicolas how many months of lifting? Thinking about Nicolas, Dylan cut herself off. How Mike Robinson got his arm muscles—or what they looked like without a dress shirt over them—was 100 percent none of her business.

  “Thank you,” Dylan said, clearing her throat.

  “Do you want to try to dry it or something?” Mike asked as a sizable amount of water fell from her shoe.

  “I’ll just leave it by the door for now.” Dylan felt a small twinge of regret, which she refused to acknowledge, as she let go of his arm. It wasn’t like she didn’t have her own set of nice arms in Texas. Why should she notice someone else’s? Especially anyone related to the Robinsons.

  Following Mike into the gently lit living room, Dylan experienced an overwhelming urge to point out that all of Patricia and Linda’s furniture was unstained and that the drapes matched. Instinctively, she reached out to touch a lumpy clay statue covered in Crayola paints. Picking up the dust-free object, she turned to face Mike, who’d been watching her with curiosity as she wandered around the shelves. Conscious of her overly familiar behavior, Dylan set the object down and put her hands firmly in her pockets.

  “Sorry, I was noticing how many of these y’all have.”

  “They come from the children’s museum where I work. Mom’s company sponsors a table at our fundraising gala every year, so she gets little things made by the kids. I keep telling her she doesn’t have to save them, but she does anyway.” Sensing the question Dylan was too polite to ask, he added, “Linda’s company.”

  “That’s sweet,” Dylan said, noticing the different flecks of brown in his eyes. Trying not to stare, she turned back to the shelves, adding, “So you work at a museum? I thought you were getting a PhD?”

  “I am. My dissertation explores early-childhood development and experiential education, hence the children’s museum.” Mike said this with the easy confidence of an academic, as if everyone knew what he was talking about.

  “This is the point where I confess that I have no idea what experiential education is.” Dylan laughed over her shoulder, then moved to look at the framed pictures next to the shelves.

  “Basically, learning through activity and reflection. Students who learn to discuss their thoughts and feelings are better equipped to handle peer-to-peer or peer-to-adult relationships. My interest is in finding ways to provide those experiences outside of the traditional school setting.”

  Mike smiled as if he had been waiting months for someone new to ask him about teaching methods for children. Dylan hadn’t even known toddlers could be socialized. Kids, she thought, were wild, sweaty, and unpredictable. Their singular purpose was to make her nervous. Mike did not share her fear. Intriguing.

  “So how do you create that in a museum setting?” she asked and watched as his smile widened.

  “In roughly one thousand different ways. However, my dream is a high-tech sensory room.”

  Dylan cocked her head and arched an eyebrow, prompting another explanation.

  “For example, I can use lights, sounds, and images to create a jungle. The kids can listen to jungle sounds, see animals . . . and maybe I add a mister so they can feel humidity.” He ran a hand down the back of his head, stopped at the base of his neck, and then continued. “The idea isn’t new. But the community around the museum needs something like this. Anyway, I’m developing one that can transition into a number of experiences using technology so children can feel a desert or a frozen tundra or a crowded city all in one place.”

  “When does it open?” Dylan was pretty sure she had never met anyone with more enthusiasm for developing well-socialized children.

  “Sometime between never and when I win the lotto.” He laughed at her expression. “Prior to my mom’s company getting involved in the museum, the place was almost completely underwater. Things are improving, but a new sensory room, especially the kind I want, is expensive.”

  “Oh,” Dylan offered awkwardly. She had run out of knickknacks to examine and was forced to look Mike in his unusually symmetrical face again.

  “Enough about me. How are you? How are your sisters? Sometimes I see Neale driving out of the neighborhood, but I haven’t really talked to any of the Delacroix in months.”

  After picking her way over to the adjacent love seat, Dylan sat down, tucking her feet under her, instantly more comfortable in the Robinson home than in her own. “Oh, you know . . . Billie is still in New York working on her variety show, which I’m pretty sure means waitressing. And Neale is . . . well, Neale is just Neale.” Dylan sighed. In Texas, she usually said her sisters were waitresses, but she couldn’t lie to Mike, who, through the unfortunate proximity of their houses, had been forced to observe her entire family history.

  “It’s good they’re pursuing their dreams.”

  Mike was being nice. She could have said her sisters were mutants, and she was positive the pleasant smile on his face would still be there.

  “What about you? I’m sure whatever you are doing is super impressive. You were always a good-looking go-getter. What’s new?”

  Dylan’s face felt hot. Did he think she was good looking? The expression was as old as the hills and too goofy by a mile. He couldn’t mean it like that. Clearly, he was just channeling some old Hollywood charisma to go with his looks. The charm just rolled off him and messed with her head in the process. She cleared her throat and said, “I’m still the family oddball. I work for Kaplan; it’s a corporate-productivity consulting firm. I’m starting with Technocore on Monday, helping—”

  “Wait. Technocore? As in Tim Gunderson, the activist guy who hacked the mayor’s office and exposed all that city fraud?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Didn’t he just lay off an entire department, then buy a Tesla?”

  “That’s him.” Dylan cringed as she said this. The infamous candy apple–red Founders Series custom Roadster wasn’t half as bad as his memo instructing all departments to give out T-shirts instead of holiday bonuses. Gunderson prided himself on being frugal when it came to business but was completely extr
avagant in his personal life. As a result, Technocore was hemorrhaging key employees who wanted to be paid well and treated to more than a doughnut at the annual Employee Appreciation Day.

  “What are you doing for them?”

  “For starters, getting rid of the Tesla.” Dylan’s smile was more of a flinch. Technocore was nothing short of a career death sentence. Four of the last consulting firms had either been fired or had quit within weeks of attempting to work with Gunderson. She just hoped she lasted long enough for a stay of execution.

  “Hello? Mike? Whose shoes are these?” Patricia’s crisp voice floated down the hallway.

  “In here,” Mike called over his shoulder.

  Dylan suddenly became aware of her legs tucked under her, the wet hem of her wool pants soaking into the couch. Feeling guilty, she pulled her legs to the ground just as Patricia and Linda rounded the corner.

  “Oh, hi, Dylan.” Patricia looked surprised the shoes belonged to her but recovered quickly enough. After walking over in her ultrawhite and well-pressed sweater set, she stood in front of Dylan with her arms open. It took a moment for her to realize that Patricia Robinson actually wanted to hug her. A Delacroix. Stooping to embrace the petite woman, she wondered what alternate universe she’d stumbled into. Since when did the Robinsons unlace enough to hug?

  “You look so grown! I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “I haven’t been home in a few years,” Dylan said as Patricia released her to Linda, who was equally well put together. Dylan spotted pearls under Linda’s black fleece jacket. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun and covered in enough hair spray to make sure each strand stayed in place into eternity. “How are you?”

  “Same old, same old. Are you here about the lights?” Linda asked without preamble.

  “I’m sorry. It’s killing my mother,” Dylan said with an uncomfortable shrug.

  “I heard her tell Henry last night. I thought they would send Milo with a note again. You’re a pleasant surprise,” Linda said happily, holding up the take-out bag. “Join us in the kitchen?”

  “Mom, if you knew it was bugging them, why didn’t you fix it?” Mike had the decency to look confused. Patricia wore the same contrite expression her father wore whenever her mother did something ridiculous.

  Ignoring Mike’s question, Linda shook the bag of food at Dylan. “Stay for egg rolls?” she said, looking entirely unrepentant.

  “Oh no, I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. I was only stopping by to see if maybe you could angle the lights a little more toward your driveway?”

  “Come have something to eat. You have to be starving,” Patricia answered, disregarding the stubborn set in Linda’s jaw. Whenever Dylan had been sent to negotiate peace as a kid, the Robinsons had fed her. Patricia and Linda were convinced that two people as strange as her parents could not possibly feed their children. This wasn’t true. In point of fact, Bernice was obsessed with family meals, just not at regular meal intervals. Dylan had never bothered to correct the Robinsons’ assumption, mostly because it got her a lot of cookies.

  “No, really, it’s okay. I’m sure you want to eat with your son.” Dylan’s stomach chose that moment to rumble at the smell of fried vegetable goodness.

  “You sure sound hungry,” Patricia added, her voice tight with disapproval.

  “Nope, I’m leaving them all for you.”

  “Let’s compromise. You take one for the road,” Linda said, her litigator skills showing. She popped open the container and held it out to Dylan. “Also, honey . . . one of your shoes is dripping all over the hall. You may want to look into that.”

  Dylan’s cheeks burned as she crossed the street in her dripping heels, munching on the last of her egg roll. When she shoved open the front door, she found her dad following along with an old Darrin’s Dance Grooves video. At one time her father’s impromptu dance marathons might have seemed normal to her. She would just have to pretend she didn’t know better now.

  Filling her lungs to drown out the tape, she called, “Mom, what’s this about sending Milo to the Robinsons?”

  Her dad was so in the zone he didn’t notice her shouting over the tape. Bernice popped her head around the corner of the kitchen and grinned. “Genius, isn’t it? I usually flag down their son and make him deliver the message, but he was on vacation, and I really couldn’t wait, so I sent Milo. Damn dog nearly went to the wrong house.” Her mother appeared genuinely dismayed at the dog’s inability to deliver angry letters to the neighbors. “So was I right? Did they agree to remove the lights?”

  “Not in so many words, but I think their son is going to work on it.”

  “Ha. What did I tell you? And you were over here all, Mom, that won’t work because I am an adult. I’m above everything,” Bernice said in a terrible, nasal approximation of Dylan, complete with a robot voice and stiff movements that managed to be as inaccurate as they were patronizing.

  “Good impression, Mom. You are a great actress.”

  “What? You sound just like that,” Bernice said, waving off her complaint, then adding, “Since you’re here, we may as well push for another victory. I don’t want to stretch our luck, but maybe next week you can talk to them about the hideous speedboat they park in their driveway every summer.” Bernice turned back toward the kitchen. Her change in location made absolutely no difference to her speaking volume. “Talk about an eyesore. And they have the nerve to think the Tiger is tacky.”

  “Right,” Dylan said, shaking her head and wandering up the stairs. When she opened her bedroom door, she found that Milo had pulled the blanket off her bed and was lounging on the floor with it. “Gross,” she mumbled, trying to pull her now-dirty comforter out from under his hulking frame. Begrudgingly, Milo rolled over, giving it up. Dylan stood in the middle of her room, debating what to do with it. On the one hand, she wanted her comforter. On the other, it smelled like Milo, whose bathing schedule was more than a little suspect. She decided to risk it and wash the thing in the morning with the rest of the sheets Milo had rolled in.

  Exchanging her soaked slacks for her favorite pair of menswear-inspired pajama bottoms, Dylan picked up her phone and toyed with the idea of checking her email. It was part of her and Nicolas’s nighttime ritual: email, dinner, more email, then bed. It felt strange checking email in her childhood room without him there, and Dylan decided she’d live dangerously and skip the ritual.

  She texted Nicolas a quick update, since it wasn’t a scheduled call night, then pitched the phone on the paper-strewed desk before staring at the massive patch of fluorescent light coming through her bedroom window. She stepped over Milo and closed the curtains. Sinking back into the chair, now only slightly bathed in glaring white light, Dylan wondered exactly how much a fancy sensory room cost and made a mental note to ask Mike if she saw him again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dylan finished applying an extra coat of antifrizz serum and gave her favorite tan pencil dress a once-over, proud she’d managed to successfully keep Milo from shedding all over it. Pulling up the exposed gold zipper, she stepped into a matching pair of patent leather pumps and then shrugged on a heavy trench. Dylan decided today was going to be a good day. Sure, she was starting at Technocore, but it was only misting, and that boded well for her hair if nothing else.

  Cruising toward downtown, she went over her list of things she wanted to accomplish today. Her contact at Technocore should have arranged a vital sit-down with Gunderson and interviews with four senior managers from various departments to keep her on schedule. Dylan hoped the interviews would support the action plan and timeline she had developed on the plane. The faster she could get Gunderson to commit to her ideas, the easier the transition would be. If she could score a few early wins to gain the founder’s confidence, she would buy herself more time to solve the big problems before the finicky tech genius—or his board of directors—fired her.

  Putting the car in park, she threw a small prayer to the workplace gods and then walked up t
o the sleepy-looking security guard. She glanced down at her watch and smiled. After years of missing doctors’ appointments and chasing planes with her parents, Dylan thoroughly enjoyed being early. When she cleared her throat, the young security guard looked up from the book review section of the Seattle Times.

  “Hello. I’m here for Marta Woods. I’m Dylan Delacroix, with Kaplan and Associates.” She was never sure what information had been given to security about her, so she said everything to be safe. The guard looked up at her blankly. “I’m early.”

  “Let me, uh . . . let me check and see if she . . . uh, Marta . . . ,” the guard stammered, furiously typing on the screen in front of him. “Uh . . . I don’t see you on the manifest.” He looked at her apologetically.

  “You know, it may be under my boss’s name. Jared Gilroy.” Dylan drew a deep breath and smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way. It wasn’t the guard’s fault Jared was incompetent. She should have double-checked this before she arrived.

  “Nope.” The guard shook his head but didn’t offer any suggestions.

  Dylan felt a twinge of irritation kick in. She would add customer-service training for security personnel to the list of processes to be reviewed. “You could call Marta. She’d con—”

  “Marta quit last Friday,” the baby-faced guard sputtered.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. So . . .”

  Dylan racked her brain, trying to come up with the name of another contact in the office. She pulled out her phone and began scanning through emails. “I’m sure there’s someone in the office who can vouch for me. I was hired to help sort through some of Technocore’s recent”—Dylan tried to phrase the next part carefully. People got squirrelly when they found out consultants were being brought in to evaluate them—“staffing trouble.”

  “The thing is, I can’t let you up there without clearance.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Gunderson knows I’m coming? Why don’t you give him a call?”